


come take my pulse (the pace is on a runaway train)

by spacenarwhal



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Awkward Sexual Situations, Awkwardness, Drunkenness, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-24
Updated: 2015-09-24
Packaged: 2018-04-23 03:41:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4861634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacenarwhal/pseuds/spacenarwhal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe that split second was all Foggy had needed to invent an entire hypothetical future where Insanely Attractive Guy decided Foggy was exactly what he was looking for and they fell in deep, mutual, respectful love and had some of that sex everyone was always going on about and lived happily ever after. </p><p>Not that any of that had happened. </p><p>(Or: Judy Blume did not prepare Foggy for the trials and tribulations of falling in love with his best friend. Or almost sleeping with him.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	come take my pulse (the pace is on a runaway train)

Of all the ways Foggy had imagined this going down (and there were a few, you don’t make your way through high school and undergrad and a whole two years of law school without thinking up a few different ways it can go down), this honestly never occurred to him. Okay. That isn’t entirely true.

There _had_ been the split second after Matt had opened the door, when Foggy had realized the insanely good looking guy in his doorway wasn’t lost but in fact his roommate, that split second before Matt had stuttered and blushed and Foggy had realized his mouth was getting away from him and that maybe hitting on your roommate didn’t make for the best first impression. Maybe that split second was all Foggy had needed to invent an entire hypothetical future where Insanely Attractive Guy decided Foggy was exactly what he was looking for and they fell in deep, mutual, respectful love and had some of that sex everyone was always going on about and lived happily ever after.

Not that any of that had happened.

Well most of that hadn’t happened until tonight, until Matt had leaned on him outside the bar, boozy and warm and said, "Can I kiss you now?" and Foggy had giggled, delighted and so very okay with the idea. Now Matt’s hand is on Foggy’s thigh and Matt’s stupidly beautiful mouth is against his and Foggy’s head hasn’t stopped spinning since the door slammed closed behind his back.

No, scratch that. The whole room is spinning and Foggy has to tighten his grip on Matt’s arm to keep from flying right off it. Matt laughs, the sound of it vibrates against Foggy’s lips, off his teeth, over his tongue. It gets everywhere like errant glitter. It does things, crawly, fuzzy, warm things to Foggy’s insides (or maybe that’s the liquor. Foggy’s willing to believe it’s both. He’ll dissect it later when Matt’s hand isn’t moving up his thigh with single-minded purpose).

“Alright there?” Matt has the audacity to ask, thumb hovering just over the button of Foggy’s jeans. Because for the woe-is-me, saddest puppy in the world thing that Matt carries with him sometimes, he is also the cockiest shit Foggy has ever met. That is in full force right now, his smile sloppy but sure, and undoubtedly the single best thing Foggy had ever seen.

“I’m great.” He manages and his voice doesn’t waver even when Matt’s fingers toy with the waistband of his jeans. He definitely deserves cosmic brownie points for that. Matt’s smile widens, turns almost ruthless, and he grinds his palm over Foggy’s dick and Jesus H. Christ—Matt is the worst.

“You suck.” Foggy groans, turns his face into Matt’s neck. There’s a rough patch of stubble there, missed during Matt’s morning shave. It rasps over Foggy’s lips, but he smells good, like the fancy brand named washing detergent Matt washes his clothes with and this morning’s aftershave and Foggy’s heart physically hurt inside his chest its beating so hard.

“I could.” Matt whispers over Foggy’s cheek, hand still pressing against Foggy’s fly and it is pretty much official: Foggy is never going to get to the part where he has sex with someone who isn’t his left hand, because Matt is going to kill him. He can hear Matt’s grin without having to see it, and Foggy squeezes Matt's arms a little harder, swallows a ragged breath he forces out as a laugh.

“Real talk: Does that work for you?” Foggy asks, lips to Matt’s throat, and Matt shivered as he speaks, which was its own kind of reward. “Just ballpark figures here, I don’t need an exact count.” He can feel the rumble of Matt’s laugh this time, the hum of it over his mouth and it makes him laugh too.

“I feel like we’re losing focus here.” His hand disappears from Foggy’s dick (which is a crime, totally and completely, Foggy’s pretty sure it’s written in one of the massive books they have to read), but then both of Matt’s hands reappear on Foggy’s shoulders, grip and push him upright. Foggy would complain about the interruption of the careful study of Matt’s adam’s apple he was about to undertake but then Matt’s taking his face in his hands—they’re warm and huge and it’s weird probably, how into them Foggy is already—and kissing him again.

“False,” Foggy breathes when can, “I’m totally on point right now. I am a disciplined disciple of what’s taking place.”

Matt chuckles, sweeps his fingers up and over Foggy’s ear, “I appreciate your dedication Mr Nelson.”

“Yeah,” Foggy says, lifts his shoulder in a tiny shrug under Matt’s hand, “I’m all yours buddy.” He echoes his own words from earlier in the night, when they'd been sitting shoulder to shoulder at the bar, well into their third drinks. The words were light, as casual as Foggy’s arm thrown over Matt’s shoulders on a night’s walk back to their room, just as easy as they’ve ever been before and no less true. They'd earned a small tilt of Matt's head but it wasn't until later, until Matt had pushed him back into the shadows outside the bar that Foggy had thought about all the other things they meant too. 

Foggy almost misses it. But he’s been watching Matt’s face for what feels like forever now, can recognize the shift of his smile, however small, the minor hesitation that dulls the corner of it. Foggy lifts his right hand to Matt’s cheek, like he can stroke the smile back into its proper place (he’s never tried it before, it just might work) and Matt turns his face into his hand just a little. Just enough.

It’s hard to keep track of things after Matt pulls him in for another kiss. His hands wander, he combs his fingers through Foggy’s hair, brushes over his shoulders. He makes noises at the back of his throat when Foggy pets down his back, when he pulls Matt's t-shirt up at his sides and touches his stomach, his chest. He drops his hand to Matt’s waist before he can second-guess himself. Matt groans when Foggy’s fingers brush over the pretty obvious hard on in his pants, shivers with his whole body. Then he’s pushing Foggy over, straddling him in a moment of would-be crazy agility if it weren’t for the part where he kneels on Foggy’s hipbone.

“Ow!”

“Oh shit, sorry, sorry!” Matt’s half-apologetic, half-giggling, peppering Foggy’s face with whiskey-scented kisses. Then Matt’s hands are at Foggy’s waistband again and the button’s open. Matt’s movements lack finesse but they get the job done, pull Foggy’s jeans down his thighs until Foggy can kick them off. _We’re doing this_ , he realizes, _we’re really doing this_. His heart throbs inside his chest, he wants this so much—for so many reasons and most of them _Matt_ —and, oh god, he’s nervous.

Matt’s sitting on top of him and he’s gorgeous and not even remotely close to naked but none of that, not even the booze, is enough to take the edge off the fact that they are doing this. What happens in the morning? What happens when Foggy’s stupid heart decides to turn this infatuation into a full blown dilemma? And what about Matt, who Foggy doesn’t think has kept anyone around for longer than three weeks, whose relationships are all firmly in the category of ‘Not’. What happens when Matt realizes they’re after different things?

If it were anyone else, if it weren’t Matthew Murdock grinding against Foggy right now Foggy wouldn’t hesitate, would throw caution to the wind and just let it happen. But it isn’t anyone else, it’s Matt, and some days it feels like it might only ever be Matt. What happens when—

Matt pulls back, pushes himself up on his stupidly toned arms, and even though he’s still sitting astride Foggy’s hips he feels miles away already. He’s flushed pink and half-dazed, his eyes staring somewhere near center of Foggy’s face.

"You okay?" He shift his weight enough to bring one of his hands back to Foggy’s cheek. His fingers are warm now, nothing like they were outside the bar, licked cold by the wind, his thumb sweeping over Foggy’s skin. For all the touching they’ve done tonight, there’s something to it that makes Foggy’s throat go tight, makes him choke on something that bypasses affection and desire both.

Foggy nods, swallows hard. "Yeah, totally."

“Foggy.” Matt says, voice kind, “We don’t have to—” His thumb smooths over Foggy’s skin again, “We don’t have to do anything. Tonight. Probably—it’s better if we don’t.”

And just like that Foggy knows exactly how every frumpy protagonist in a PG-13 teen movie feels when the out of their league object of their affections is trying to let them down gently. Because of course. Of course Matt is already nine steps ahead of him even when buzzed.

Foggy lets his hands fall away from Matt’s shoulder, it doesn’t seem right to touch him anymore, drags his left hand over his face. “Yeah. Yeah you’re probably right.” Of course he’s right. In the wrongest way possible, Matt is probably right.

He doesn’t know what Matt hears in his voice—his chronic blue balls maybe or the suffocating embarrassment of rejection, or even the quiet crunch of Foggy’s heart breaking into a hundred tiny pieces—but he must take is as a sign the night’s well and truly over since he slides off Foggy then. Foggy takes a deep breath to rally himself before he takes the four foot walk of shame to his own side of the room (he wonders if his mom will let him move back into his old room. He can probably finish his degree online and become one of those late night infomercial lawyers who help people sue chain restaurants because they serve coffee hot). Except that before Foggy can do any of that Matt’s arm is wrapping around Foggy’s waist and he’s pressing a solitary kiss to Foggy’s ear like it’s completely normal to semi-spoon your roommate in his underwear after a crash-and-burn attempt at hooking up. Matt keeps his hips a careful distance away from Foggy, as much as he can without getting out of the bed all together. Which wouldn’t make sense, seeing as it is Matt’s bed, and if anyone should be on the floor right now it should be Foggy, willing away his shame erection. Matt’s breathing starts to even out, steady and deep, his face pressed against Foggy’s shoulder and Foggy has never been more confused in his short misspent life.

Thankfully, his fickle friend alcohol steps in, cuts Foggy off from the utter mayhem of his inner most thoughts, and sends him to sleep before he’s even made up his mind to leave.

 

-

 

He wakes up with his left arm awkwardly wedged under his body and completely numb. His mouth tastes like something died in it and returned from the dead for the sole purpose of dying again. The room is a muted grey that signifies it is too fucking early to be awake for a weekend so Foggy lets his eyes slip shut again for his own peace of mind. He tries to shift, but there’s nowhere to go really, Matt taking up a ridiculous amount of space for such a compact guy. Or maybe he’s just covering a lot of Foggy, draped against him, elbow digging into Foggy’s back and a heavy leg wedged between Foggy’s. His calf is warm and hairy and a hundred percent less denim clad than it was when Foggy went to sleep.

He groans when Foggy moves, might actually try to burrow closer if his face rubbing against Foggy’s back is anything to go on (he might be drooling a little, which, Foggy isn’t immediately repulsed by, who knew). His hand wiggles its way into the space under Foggy’s arm until he’s got an arm across Foggy’s chest like some kind of sleepy boa constrictor.

“Go to sleep.” Matt mostly yawns against Foggy’s neck, “Please.”

“Just because you said please.” Foggy grumbles, more than happy to put the inevitable awkward conversation off for a little while longer.

 

-

 

The second time he wakes up with the pale morning sun falling on his face, overly warm under Matt’s comforter and – “Are these silk?” He asks, still partially asleep and entirely stupid from prolonged exposure to Matt Murdock.

But. “Love’em and leave’em Murdock.” He mumbles under his breath, though he doesn’t know why he bothers given how the empty room isn’t about to take offense. “And now I’m just talking to myself.” He adds for no one’s benefit, because Matt’s gone. Because Matt probably woke up this morning to the sober realization of a new day and remembered all the reasons why a drunken, albeit aborted, hookup with his besotted roommate was not a good idea and swiftly removed himself from the premises.

Well, Foggy thinks, kicking free of Matt’s stupid soft sheets, he can do one better. He can get himself as far as Queens at least before the morning is done. Nothing wrong with an impromptu visit to your parents when your heart’s been gently smashed by your well-meaning friend. He trips over last night’s jeans, yanks them back on before he starts throwing clothes into a duffle bag. He’s hightailed it to the bathroom armed with his toothbrush before he can talk himself into anything resembling maturity, scrubs his mouth vigorously in an attempt to do away with the stale taste of last night’s rejection. The floor’s still quiet, and a glance at the clock over the floor bulletin board reveals it’s not even eight yet, which means Foggy can make it out to his parents’ place before they’ve finished breakfast if he books it now. He’s already made up his mind to leave his international law reader behind in favor of his flashcards when he opens the door to Matt standing over by Foggy’s desk, setting down a cup of coffee and brown paper bag.

“Uh.” Foggy offers eloquently and Matt’s face is a perfect picture of startled guilt, like he’s been caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar and he doesn’t know how to extract himself from the situation.

“I—um—I got you a muffin.” Matt says, gesturing in the direction of the offerings on Foggy’s desk. He picks up the brown paper bag and holds it out to Foggy, who has no choice but to take it or else run the risk of feeling like an asshole, which he already sort of does now that he's been caught mid-flight. There is in fact a muffin in the bag, something that smells like cinnamon and sugar but Foggy’s not really hungry. Matt’s arm falls with an oddly defeated swing. He worries the cuff of his sleeve over his knuckles, pinches his hand into a fist at his side.

“Were you going to—” He stalls, mouth twisting as though warding off something unpleasant. Worried isn’t a look Matt wears easily. “I thought I’d do a load.” Foggy lies, mouth opening before he’s even decided to do it, “Get a head start before the good machine gets taken. Uh—do you, um, have anything to throw in?” He offers because he always offers, and it would be weird not to do that now.

Matt’s mouth opens, closes, his head tilted just a little to the left as his eyebrows drop. He jerks his head in a universal sign for no, “I’m okay. Thank you.” He stumbles over the words a little, reminds Foggy of Matt almost two years prior, always a little too formal, too polite, something uncomfortable in his stance that Foggy had wanted to tease loose. “Right. Okay, then—” Foggy sidesteps Matt and reaches for the duffle, only half-full and still open on the bed, pulls the zipper closed. He can’t go now, he knows that much, can’t just walk out without a word and leave Matt waiting. But he can’t stay either. Not yet. “I’m just gonna go do that.” He slings the bag over his shoulder and is out the door before Matt can say another word.

 

-

 

Foggy takes a minute to evaluate his choices. He can go back upstairs and face Matt and get this all over with. The sooner the better, since putting it off is really just giving Foggy more time to stew in his own misery. At this point it can’t be much worse than this, sitting in an equally empty laundry room, kicking himself because not only is he a complete coward, he also doesn’t have anything that would actually come in handy to do a load of laundry other than the dirty clothes.

And he’s hungry.

Foggy sighs. He’s never drinking again. Or, he amends to himself, he’s committing himself to a life of drink. Whatever makes things easier.

There’s a scratch on the green surface of the folding table he’s sitting on, bisecting a sticker for some band Foggy doesn’t recognize and a conversation scrawled in permanent marker. He follows the grove of it with his nail, runs through possible conversation openers. Something tells him ‘ _So our dicks touched_ ’ is probably not the right way to go.

He hears Matt seconds before he rounds the door frame, the familiar tap, tap, tap of his cane across the floor tiles. “You took off pretty fast back there.” Matt says, smile cautious. He’s holding a cup of coffee in his free hand, which he holds out to Foggy without another word. _You did too_ , Foggy wants to snap even as he wraps his fingers around the cardboard cup, but the anger fizzles out somewhere in his throat, so he just clutches his coffee cup closer instead. The coffee’s gone lukewarm already, but it’s still world’s better than the dish water the student union sells by the gallon. It’s hardly enough to be considered a gesture, they’ve kept each other in coffee for long enough now, but it’s still somehow enough to throw another pebble on the avalanche of reasons why Foggy’s misplaced freshman crush won’t just die a peaceful death.

“Matt—” Foggy starts, draws a deep breath but doesn’t even know what he wants to say, what he should say that’ll put last night and this morning behind them. What he can say to make everything better. “Foggy, I—” Matt stops, head falling forward and he runs a hand through his hair, “Last night was—” There it is.

“Listen, you don’t have to. Whatever you’re going to say, it’s okay. I get it. You don’t have to explain. Our friendship means more to me that some one night stand, so don’t worry about it okay? You’re totally off the hook.” He swirls his coffee cup and wishes there was some liquor in it. Alcohol would definitely make this better.

Matt stands there mouth slightly agape, head cocked to the side, and then, “What hook?” He sounds so honestly incredulous that Foggy covers his eyes.

“ _The_ hook man. You know where you feel all weird about not wanting to—” The words stick in his throat and he can’t bring himself to say it, so he waves his hand, “Whatever, what I’m saying is we’re adults. Mostly. And things totally don’t have to be weird right, we can just go back to—” Foggy doesn’t really know what they can do, but he's more than ready to wing it until something sticks.

Matt saves him by cutting him off again.

Though Matt’s method is somewhat questionable given that he basically lunges at Foggy and covers his mouth with his own.

“Hrmph?” Foggy asks, or well, tries to, but there’s the whole mouth-to-mouth thing going on, which really undermines his efforts. His hands find Matt’s shoulders, fingers curling into the soft material of Matt’s sweatshirt for a brief second before he pushes his palms flat and pulls back. “What the fuck are you doing?” There’s a flash of hurt that transforms into panic, Matt’s lips parted on a breath, red and still bitter with coffee (Matt takes it black as the night, because he hates his taste buds and has no need for his stomach lining apparently), and Foggy is definitely not staring, he’s just waiting for an explanation. But Matt looks so uncertain, is so lost standing there between Foggy’s knees that Foggy kneads Matt’s shoulders briefly, tries to smooth down the tense line of them, “What are we doing Matty?”

He’s waiting for some glib response, but all of Matt goes still under Foggy’s hands, and then— He hold his hands up, encroaches slowly enough that Foggy could move away if he wanted to, but he doesn’t (simply doesn’t want to). His fingers are cold against Foggy’s cheeks. Seriously for Christmas Foggy's getting the guy a decent pair of mittens.

Foggy’s fingers flex against Matt’s shoulders, not quite clinging, but it’s a close thing. “I don’t know Foggy.” His eyes are hidden behind his glasses, but Matt’s heart’s always been a contradiction, a secret pinned on his sleeve for Foggy to try and make sense of. “I thought—I thought I had to wait until I did but—I don’t want to wait. And I understand if that’s not good enough, or if it isn't the right time for you or if you need more or if this isn’t what you want at all, I won’t hold you to anything.” Foggy’s heart beats, beats, beats inside his chest, and he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say to that. “But if you’re willing to try Foggy, we could figure it out together.”

Foggy takes the easy way out, if there can be such a thing in this romcom clusterfuck they’ve landed themselves in. Foggy leans forward, and there’s a second before he gets so close he’d go cross-eyed if he doesn’t close his eyes, just long enough for Foggy to see Matt’s mouth curl upwards, a happy twitch that Foggy can still feel when he presses his mouth against it.

 

-

 

“There’s a procedure.” Matt’s still trying to argue, though his hair’s a mess from yanking his sweatshirt off moments ago, the hickey Foggy sucked onto his throat last night still darkening nicely. “I thought you’d appreciate it.”

“Really Matthew? I know you might find this hard to believe, given what I assure you is an incredible resemblance, but I am not Molly Ringwald.” Foggy shoots back, shooing Matt’s hands out of the way since they’re apparently content to pet Foggy, in a completely nonsexual way, rather than finish undressing him. Matt huffs in annoyance but sits back on his heels long enough for Foggy to wrestle out of his shirt. He doesn’t wait for Foggy to give him the all clear, just throws himself back over Foggy with impeccable timing seconds after Foggy’s tossed his shirt to the floor. “Besides,” Foggy continues, combing his fingers through the hair sticking up at the back of Matt’s head, “That’s kind of funny coming from you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Matt asks, hands stroking over Foggy’s sides again—serious petting problem—and Foggy wiggles and laughs under his breath, “C’mon man, you’re not exactly a third-date guy.”

Matt pulls back, supporting his weight on his hands, and it’s a little too much like déjà vu, seeing him hover over Foggy like that. But whatever was darkening Matt’s face passes so quickly Foggy thinks he’s imagined it, and when he grins it’s teasing. “We spent the night together after we had drinks, and this morning I bought you breakfast. Does that pass muster?”

Foggy snorts, “And they say romance is dead.”

Matt kisses him again, slow and sweet and sure, like the dirty cheater he is. “Okay,” Foggy concedes, a little bit breathless, “I guess, when you put it that way, I can see your point.”

“I knew you would.” Matt’s grin widens and makes him look like a lunatic, but he’s flushed pink down his throat and so pretty it hurts Foggy’s eyes. He tells him as much. “So are you.” Matt says, nonsensical, dropping a kiss on Foggy’s chin, then the underside of his jaw (shaving was clearly the best idea he’s ever had). His voice goes goofy, like when he’s sharing a particularly terrible joke, and Foggy is so fond of the idiot he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

He has a fairly good idea of what he wants to do to Matt though so he goes with it. It’s not like last night, the ride or die of it all faded into something less scary. Or maybe not less scary, Foggy realizes when he redirects Matt with a gentle tug on his hair, brings their mouths together again for another long exchange of kisses. There’s still something frighteningly good about this, about having this, something intoxicating to Matt’s mouth and his hands and his body, all hard lines and compact warmth, something mind-numbingly wonderful to the soft exhale of his laugh over Foggy’s lips when Foggy’s runs his fingers over his side. Not less scary but most definitely worth it, the shivering doubt from last night muted if not entirely gone, this new terrain surer underfoot now that it was before.

They’re a mess of knees and shins and ankles, Matt wiggling around hilariously to get out of his jeans without getting off the bed. “Are you—” Matt starts and Foggy kisses him quiet before he can decide to play the chivalry card again. There’s no reason they have to do this now, and somehow that’s reason enough to do it. They have all the time in the world. Who can blame Foggy for wanting to capitalize on it starting now.

Being naked next to Matt is momentarily horrifying—Matt can’t see him but he can feel, the soft give of Foggy’s belly and arms and thighs, the roundness of his face, all of it on display beneath his hands. But Matt hums at the back of his throat when he touches him, palms gentle against Foggy’s body. Matt calls him pretty with that thick-corded affection in his voice and Foggy might not believe him but he can stand to hear Matt say it again.

Actually getting to see Matt naked this time, well that’s awesome enough to make being naked himself worth it, his hipbones sharp and his chest hard under the surprisingly sparse hair that grows there. Matt practically purrs into the kiss when Foggy strokes his hands down the length of his spine, unwinds further and further with every pass, and it’s good to know that wasn’t just the alcohol talking the night before. They’re both hard, hips absentmindedly meeting without agenda, and heat twists tight in Foggy’s belly with every haphazard press, with friction that’s not nearly enough.

“Okay,” Matt mutters, syllables soft, “Okay.” He pulls away, mouth red and eyes half-closed, breathing hard, scatters kisses across Foggy’s jaw and right shoulder before he starts to shuffle his way down Foggy’s body. “Come back here.” Foggy whines, but then Matt’s nipping at his stomach and still moving lower and Foggy’s torn between the absolute certainty Matt’s going to topple right out of the bed and the pulse-spiking realization of where Matt’s taking this.

“Oh God.” He chokes out, Matt’s teeth light on his hip (he licks at the mark after and Jesus Foggy’s going to look like some kind of snow leopard tomorrow). “Matty—” He start before he's decided what to say, but Matt lifts his head, breath ghosting over Foggy’s erection and he’s not going to make it. Foggy’s going to die and his mother will be super disappointed at the funeral. “This okay?” Matt asks, hands on Foggy’s splayed thighs and Foggy nods like an idiot. “I nodded.” He manages on an inhale, and Matt grins, so pleased. “Good.”

And then because Matt’s some kind of patron saint for carnal pleasures he adds, “You can touch my hair. Let me know if anything doesn’t work for you.”

Then his mouth, his stupidly gorgeous mouth that Foggy has spent the last two years strictly prohibiting himself from imagining in this exact situation, is around Foggy’s dick. His brain breaks a little. He thinks back to every low-res porn he’s ever watched and forces his hips back hard, keeps them pressed down into the mattress to keep them from jerking up into Matt’s mouth. That would be rude.

Foggy touches Matt’s head because he has permission, tries to keep the touch light so Matt doesn’t feel like Foggy’s trying to get him to do something. Christ, Matt does not need pointers. It’s all wet heat and sucking pressure and the noisy slide of Matt’s mouth as he moves, the soft sounds Matt makes (the irregular in and out of his breathing through his nose, tiny hums that Foggy will not categorize as moans unless he wants this to be over right now). “Oh fuck.” Foggy moans, head grinding back against the pillow. Masturbation is nothing, nothing compared to this. Matt sucks harder and Foggy's hips twitch, meet the firm press of Matt's hands holding him steady. “Fuck, Matt. Matt.” He’s a total broken record.  There's a tiny portion of his brain that remembers to feel sorry for the people in the rooms on either side of theirs, but the rest of his brain is more concerned with not pulling Matt’s hair when his fingers tighten involuntarily. Matt’s fingers squeeze at his tensing thighs, tongue flat under the head of Foggy’s dick before he pulls off (there’s a faintly obscene pop sound when he goes which Foggy plans to commit to memory).

“Are you close?” Foggy clenches his eyes shut (Matt’s face is red and his mouth is wet with spit and Foggy’s dick is so hard it hurts, pulsing heat that’s pulling so tight one stray glance could probably push him over the edge). “Oh God, so close—Matt I—” He does pull on Matt’s hair then, because he can't ask if Matt's willing to swallow, he doesn't know what the answer will do to him regardless of what it might be. He yanks up and thank God Matt gets the memo, shuffle crawls back up the bed and Foggy cradles him between his shaking thighs, ruts up against Matt’s dick and kisses Matt with everything inside of him. (Matt doesn’t taste any different to him, but Foggy imagines what it would be like to taste himself in Matt’s mouth, to lick himself off Matt’s lips.) “Fuh—Foggy.” Matt groans from somewhere deep in his chest, voice so low it’s practically a growl, and yes, Foggy is on board with that.

Matt’s hips grind down and Foggy releases his strenuous hold on his own hips, rolls them forward and up, over and over while Matt bears down. It’s nothing like the blowjob or even the aborted handjob from last night, it’s a short, shocky pleasure that spreads and spreads and spreads. His hands wander from Matt’s hair, squeeze at his shoulders, drag over his back, splay low over his back and follows the rise and fall of Matt’s body over his. His orgasm is a literal throb, sharp between his legs as he comes, a messy spill over his stomach and Matt’s breath catches on the next thrust, his hands clasp hard at Foggy’s side. His whole body shivers, oversensitive and spent, and he throws his arms around Matt’s shoulders, holds on tight as Matt pants hot-damp against Foggy’s chest and comes with a low whine. Foggy chants his name, likes the feel of it on his tongue until Matt’s can lift his head enough to kiss him (it isn’t much of a kiss, both their mouths uncooperative, their breathing too heavy to really be conducive to a quality make out. It might be the best kiss of Foggy’s life).

Matt slip-slides to the side, most of his weight still predominantly on Foggy, and it’s hot and damp between them, sweat and more sweat, and soon it’ll be gross too, come wet on Foggy’s belly and thighs and thank god they fell into Foggy’s bed and not Matt’s. Foggy’s sheets are totally machine washable.

“Your heart’s beating really fast.” Matt’s hand reaches over and presses over Foggy’s still-racing heart, fingers flexing in a quick tap-tap-tap that Foggy thinks is supposed to be his heartbeat. “Gee I wonder why.” Foggy grouses, but he thinks his smile must be totally evident in his voice if Matt’s grin is anything to go by. They’re quiet for a minute longer. Matt’s fingers go still on Foggy’s chest, Foggy’s arm starts to go numb under Matt’s weight. Another minute and then Matt starts to shift, mouth turning downward in a grimace when he moves. “Would it completely kill the afterglow if we showered?” Matt asks half-cautiously.

Foggy sighs. “I knew you’d hit it and quit Murdock.” Matt makes an indignant sound and tries to smother Foggy with a pillow. Foggy snickers happily the whole while.

They can work on the ever after part. 

 

-

 

The End

**Author's Note:**

> This is was supposed to be a fill for the daredevil kinkmeme where Foggy was a virgin until he met Matt but that sort of became secondary to whatever it is that actually happened in this story.
> 
> The title is from the song Help I'm Alive by Metric.


End file.
